Thine Own Misery
by Snow'sLuckyCat
Summary: Someone’s worried about the Major in more ways than one! The first followup to my Thine Own Mortality fic.


Title: Thine Own Misery

Author: Snow'sLuckyCat (aka orangetabby2003…that's me! LOL)

Disclaimer: Yet a 4TH time I say this: Me no own. You (TPTB) no sue. That basically goes for everyone ever involved in any process of making SGA a TV show. You know who you are.

Categories: Sequel, single 1st person POV, Angst, Hurt 'n' Comfort.

Pairing: I can't really say (VEG)…now, at least.

Spoilers: up thro the end of 1x16: "The Brotherhood." And major ones for the first fic in this series of mine: Thine Own Mortality.

My Inspiration: Shelly. Shelly. Shelly. :) And all the guys & gals I mentioned in my last fic, plus a few new ones: Out Of Phase, fischergirl, and briebydeb. Thanks to you all for your reviews and support. I really appreciate it! And hope it continues, as I myself continue to post more stuff. :)

Summary: Someone's worried about the Major in more ways than 1…So, what else is new? - Cheeky Grin -

A WARNING: PHILOSOPHICAL! CHARACTER ALERT (is probably not who you think though)

AND…SOME VERY IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTES: Similar to last time: Regular thoughts are in regular print, while any consciences' thoughts are in italics, hence the reason I'm using a .doc file to write this. The difference: They appear earlier & more frequent in this story.

XXXXXXX

And - Away We Go!

XXXXXXX

Something's not right here,

And I'm certainly no seer.

But we need to continue on,

Living WITHOUT FEAR.

XXXXXXX

I heard the expletive yelled out just as soon as I neared his quarters. Yes, I knew he would be angry that I'd gone on without him present, but then again, I'd also thought he would come back straight away, after he'd showered. At least, that's what I thought he'd told me, just before disappearing in the direction of his room.

Now, normally, I do my best not to check up on him, because I have it on good authority that he hates it when I do. I don't really know if it's a guy thing, or what, but I have since decided to give him that space, despite the way I feel.

Personally though, I believe it helps to keep tabs on people like the Major. As is in my line of work, if you don't keep them in check, they could run buck wild. And, while John hasn't actually done that quite yet, you never know what the stress of leadership is doing to a person, UNLESS you talk to them, which is precisely why I'm waiting to hear his mildly-annoyed voice filtering through the door directly in front of me…

"Major?"

Nothing.

Hadn't he just punched a wall?

"Major Sheppard?" I call again.

Still, nobody answers. Strange. Usually, he would be saying "Yeah? Whatcha want?" by this time, whatever he was…or wasn't…doing. And that he's not even acknowledging my presence is furthering the start of my worry sensors, which come out to play whenever the Major's out of my sight for even a few hours. Don't ask me why they're attuned to him more than anyone else though, and when they began to run that way, because I am in the dark when it comes to that.

_You **like** him, don't you?_

Shut. Up. Stupid inner voice. Stupid, second-guessing, lie-telling conscience of mine.

Now, I really should rethink what I am about to do, because I do not want my actions here to boomerang back and hit me in the face. But, I don't.

I invade my ranking military officer's home away from home, feeling only slightly guilty.

Is it wrong that I only feel SLIGHTLY guilty? Yes. But, I'm a diplomat though, so I make it my business to invade people's lives, hoping to better them in any way possible. Or, conversely, like in the instance of the Goa'uld, I'm there to make their lives a living hell. And I'm proud of that fact. Damned proud.

XXX

Standing just inside the darkened room, however, all I see are his messy, unmade bed, his neat desk, with only his novel, War and Peace, splayed out on top, and his jacket hanging on the back of his chair. No sign of the Major himself.

Then, I look down at the surrounding floor, and notice a line of apparently cast-off clothes leading to the bathroom. I take a step in that direction, which is just enough to audibly alert him of my presence, without seeing him in the see-through shower. That way, he won't come out…I dunno…totally buck-naked and unawares or anything.

Not that I would complain…much.

_So, you **do** like him?_

No! …I just think…that…he has a nice bum. That's all. I'd never tell him that though, because it might go to his head. And, hey, for that matter, why am I even discussing this with you at a time like this!

_Well, for starters, no matter how shallow your first comment seemed to be, I know that, deep down inside, it's really just a very poorly worded analogy for your love for him. _

So! What if it is? What difference does it make now? We'll all be dead in two weeks anyway. Besides, I can't let my feelings…or lack thereof…compromise my role here as leader of this expedition. That's the last thing I need right now. That's the last thing I **want** right now.

_Well, we're discussing this **now**, because I know you **do** care for him. And I want you to admit that truth, even if it's only to yourself, even if it's only right now and never again…_

Shut. Up. Just leave me. Alone.

That's when I hear it. Water is still running in the bathroom and I feel more color rushing to my cheeks, heating up my face. So, this is why he didn't hear me? Because he's still in the shower?

Ah. Well…Makes perfect sense to me…

Trying to keep my eyes away from the entrance to the smaller room, I decide to leave. But, then, something makes me look. Maybe it was some wanton desire to see if he was just taking a shower. Or maybe it was something more…substantial. Like I wanted to see if he was really all right about the deaths of two more of his men, Markham and Smith, and wasn't looking in the mirror, beating himself up for it.

Well, it's a valid concern. It wasn't his fault. I know this. Atlantis knows this. So, **he** needed to know it too. And I was the one who needed to say it to him. I just hope he'll believe me this time.

I say this only because of the past. He didn't believe me when I talked to him about Colonel Sumner. Yeah, sure, he said all the right things in all the right ways. But, he didn't truly feel that way, not really. Not only does my job call for me to broker alliances and piss people off, it also is imperative that I can read people.

And what I was reading off the Major that day was **not** acceptance. No, it was the building of steel walls that I saw in his eyes. Steel walls built to keep me out of his head. And, for a while, I let him have those walls. Those walls are probably the sole reason he's still keeping it together, now at the gates of our doom.

All I know is that I peeked. Hoping not to see naked flesh, I peer into the adjacent room with one eye only, intent on closing it very quickly, if anything like that appears…

Wait a minute.

My eye catches the pile on the floor. At first, from my angle, I think it's just some more dirty clothes. It looks a bit too big to be a pair of striped boxers though, since that's the only item I haven't seen out here in the bedroom on the floor.

Wait. Is that a motionless foot peeping out from under that whiteness?

"Major?"

No answer.

Quickly, I cover the distance between us. As I move closer, I see that the fabric, which I first thought was more clothing, is in fact the shower curtain.

"John?"

Still no answer.

So, I hear you might like to occasionally pull this "not answering" crap on Carson. And so, if this is another one of those tricks, you know that I will be "ticked" to put it mildly. Because I'm **not** Carson. And I don't suffer fools lightly.

I kneel down beside the covered body. Even the head's covered, I note, still believing any minute that he's just going to sit up, scaring me half to death just like my older brother used to do when we were kids.

"John."

Nope. Nothing. I finally take a chance and lift the sheet off of his face. First, I see the unruly bedhead. Even wet, the dark hair sticks up like a pterodactyl flying in open air.

Next comes the face. However, not one of the Major's many patented wide grins greets me. Only a slight, fixed frown and lax, closed eyes do. So, he was definitely unconscious. But, from what?

Had someone come in here and done something to him. Bates, who's had it out for him since near the start of this mission, could be a likely suspect. Or at least he could've been, had this happened earlier. Now though, he seems to have backed off…for now. Had someone else attacked him? Highly unlikely. Of course, there is Dr. Kavanagh, who is still a pain in everyone's ass. But, he wouldn't' dare be so bold, as to take action. He's too cowardly for that, right?

Or was it someone from outside Atlantis. An intruder? A Wraith? I didn't see any blood or anything that would suggest a recent feeding, but his chest is still covered by the curtain. And I really am not ready to see a bloody handprint yet…

I wonder, if I broke the feeding up and caused the Wraith to flee, because John's hair hasn't turned gray and his face still has its youthful appearance. And now I'm wondering why our sensors didn't pick up the enemy.

…Dammit, John! I just wish you would wake up and tell me what happened.

_Well, why are you gonna do that now? Because it's too late for you to tell him how you feel, since he's dead. You'll never know how he feels about you and he'll never know the truth._

He's **not** dead! I'll touch him. He'll wake up. You'll see!

"Come on, Major. Come on, John. Wake up!"

I lean over the inert body, acutely aware of his nakedness, but no longer caring, and press my fingertips, then my whole palm, to his cheek.

Intense cold is the first and only sensation I feel, not the warmth of a living human being. Now, I'm noticing the bluish color of his lips.

He can't be dead. He just can't be. Not from a Wraith that we never even knew was here.

This is just cruel.

I can't stand it anymore.

I have to know.

Peeling back the sheet further from his upper half, I am unexpectedly surprised and mildly relieved to see a wholly untouched chest. No bloody, smoking handprint. No burn marks that denote a feeding, just a small bruise on his upper right hip residing on his torso. I touch it. And that's when I feel it, a slight tremor underneath my hand.

Wait.

He's shivering…

Shivering.

Not dead.

He's still freezing cold though. And I need to get him warm. I hope he hasn't been like this for long. God knows, he can't get pneumonia **in addition** to a now pretty apparent concussion.

Standing, I go back into the bedroom, grabbing the heavy quilt from his bed and dragging it back with me. Again kneeling by John's side, I drape the dry blanket over him, kneading the sides underneath him as best as I can, while remaining careful of his head and neck.

Satisfied that I have made him as comfortable as I can, without further invading his privacy and personal space, I make to call Carson. Only then do I remember that I left my communication headphones and radio back up in the conference room.

And I know I need to leave and get help, but I'm riveted to the spot. He hasn't made a single movement, aside from the trembling, yet. And, once more, I'm getting worried.

"John…John, I need you to open your eyes for me, ok?" I plead, patting his cheek lightly, cupping his face between my two warm hands, and then idly stroking his forehead. Anything to get him to become more aware. Anything to get him to wake up and look at me…

XXX

A moan. Barely perceptible, but unmistakable.

We are now in his bedroom, he under all the covers I could find in his quarters. Me? I was scrunched up in a chair next to his bedside waiting for Beckett. I had used John's radio to call him. He'd told me he was going to be a short while though, because several people had just recently been hurt exploring the damaged parts of Atlantis from the Wraith ambush.

Don't ask me how I got John in here. I guess anxiousness makes you do some crazy things, things you normally can't do alone, like lifting a 6 foot 2 inch, 165-pound Air Force Major and dragging him into another room, let alone getting him back into bed.

I near him, very intent on seeing him open his eyes.

"Come on, Major…"

A louder groan.

"That's it…"

Absently, I cover his hand with mine. And look back up at his face, hoping he knows that I'm there and he will be all right. At least, I **hope** he'll be okay…

Then, slowly, I see his eyes playing peek-a-boo with his surroundings, playing peek-a-boo with me. Eventually, they stay open and he smiles. "Hey," he says.

And I swear that right now, more than any other time in the months we've known each other, I want to kiss him. I lean further over so that my face is hovering right over his, waiting for some reaction from John. But, he says nothing. I look at his eyes and they're closed again.

Then, it happens.

I hear the door across from me slide open. And in walks Carson Beckett. I swear that man is starting to have the worst timing. Almost as bad as Rodney's anyway.

"Ah, there ya are…Am I interrupting something?"

I prepare to answer, but John beats me to it.

"Oh…No, you weren't, Doc. She was just checking to see if I was warm enough, weren't you, Elizabeth?"

I nod my agreement at the blushing doctor.

"Ah. Well, this'll only take a moment. An' then, **weh** can let yeh get some rest, Major."

The stress on 'we' tells me I should just go ahead and go now…before I get some sort of strong lecture from the uncomfortable-looking physician. So, I excuse myself and quickly leave, ignoring the puzzled look I'm getting from John and the mildly annoyed one I **think** I'm getting from Carson.

XXX

I just saw Carson leave; he is probably off to the infirmary, back to his several other patients.

It's been about fifteen minutes since I left John with him, but I can't bring myself to go back to the control room just yet. And I don't really want to go to my room, although night has fallen on the city and I should be retiring there to get some sleep while I still can.

The Wraith are coming to wipe us all out; they have already been directly responsible for the deaths of two of the Major's men, two good men. Two men I knew enough to put their name, face, and deeds together with them. But, that's still not well enough for me.

Hell, there could be an undetected Wraith amongst us. Or, just as bad, a traitor could be in our midst, knocking people off, starting at the top of the military unit we've got here, starting with Major

I can't get past him. John. All I keep thinking about now can somehow connect straight back to him. And, right now, all I really want to do is see him again with my own eyes, see that he's really all right, even if I will just be watching him sleep.

Keeping an eye out for Dr. Beckett and his evil eyebrow look, I scurry back towards the Major's room.

"John?" I call.

A slightly muffled voice comes back to me, telling me to "come on in." I oblige, slipping quietly into the room, expecting him to be half-asleep and lying down, not really in the mood for visitors. I look up towards the bed expecting to see just that.

Instead, there he is, sitting back up against the wall on his pillow. He's also now not so naked…Thank God! I had to resist the urge to peek every time the blanket came dangerously close to uncovering bits of his body that I'd rather not see under the present circumstances.

Him. Compromised and hurt. Me. A mess of nerves and frustration.

He's wearing a light green sweatshirt and a pair of loose-fitting jeans, neither of which I've seen him wearing before. I can't help but notice the sweatshirt matches his eyes in color almost perfectly.

"Hey," he says, waving at me, acting all nonchalant.

"Hey yourself," I say, keeping my emotions in check. "What'd Beckett say?"

"Just that I have a mild concussion and some chills, nothing major."

"Listen. Do you…ah…know what happened?"

A slight blush answers me.

"What?" I ask, wondering what's so funny, coming into the room further. I pass up the chair that I'd sat in earlier, still set up next to his bed, for a perch on the edge of his desk. Once I'm settled there, he sorta looks away and remains silent a few seconds longer, until I prompt him with my version of the Beckett eyebrow.

"I…uh…fell out of the tub," he finally says, keeping his eyes trained on a spot on the wall behind me, probably wishing he'd been hurt just a bit more, so I would feel a sorry for him, yet somehow also knowing I'm about to be royally pissed with him.

He was right.

"You what!"

I could've killed him. Here, I was thinking we had a Wraith on the loose or a traitor in our midst, when all that's really happened is Sheppard becoming a clumsy oaf for a few minutes? He damned near gave me a heart attack when I'd found him on the floor…

"I…uh…got spurted by some really cold water, and I fell backwards, out of my tub, and knocked my head on the floor…as best as I can tell."

"Oh." I can't think right now of what to say, livid, but keeping it in check, since it was, after all, an accident.

He tries to quickly change the subject. "Yeah. Well, what'd you wanna talk to me about? I assume it was important, if you came in here while I was in the bathroom." Waggling eyebrows.

I try to visibly ignore the waggling brows, but accept the subject change gratefully, as my anger fades away into mild amusement at his antics. Then, after this short respite, somberness again makes its way upon my features as I remember the reason I'd come to visit John in the first place. "I just wanted to tell you that it wasn't your fault."

"What wasn't my fault?"

"Markham and Smith."

"Yeah, it was. I saw it in your eyes earlier. They betrayed you. Eyes tend to do that, you know. Didn't your mother ever tell you that?"

"No."

A gentle, bitter smile. "Ah. Well, there you have it."

I am frustrated by this insistence to continue blaming himself for everything that goes wrong in our lives as individuals and as a team. There were definite outside factors that he should also been considering, facts I want him to duly be aware of, even if he already knows them. Maybe what he needs is a person on the

"But, I disagree with you, John. It was **not** your fault. You might not have gotten that ZPM or saved Markham and Smith, but that doesn't matter, because both events were out of your control. You told me yourself that Kolya and his men were all around you, and trapped you down in that underground room. It was extremely lucky that you all didn't get taken, or worse…killed too."

Listening to this seems to be hard for him to do.

Made uncomfortable by the truth, he shifts on his bed and winces when his head hits the wall instead of his pillow, which had fallen from behind him and down to the floor. He leans over to try and grab it, but stops short with a moan.

From a headache or dizzy spell. Of that, I'm sure.

I close the gap between us, beating him to the task.

"Here, let me," I say, getting the pillow back up and behind him in one swift motion.

As I situate it behind him though, our eyes unintentionally lock for a moment. And, for one second in that fleeting moment, I can see beyond the steel walls he's had erected most of our time here. I can see into his very soul, no matter how clichéd or meaningless that sounds.

He breaks the moment first, blinking in the awkward pause of silence that follows. When our eyes meet again, I can tell the walls are firmly back up.

And even though I'm right in front of him, I fervently express my dissent, raising my voice by a few octaves for good measure.

"Dammit, John! Don't shut me out. I know those walls have gotten you this far, but how much further can they take you now? Especially all by themselves? Huh?" I start to back away, half-knowing he won't answer.

But, in the next instant, his right hand lashes out, catching my wrist. And for a guy, who's just had a pretty bad (no matter what the good doctor had diagnosed) knock to his skull and is still a bit loopy, he has retained all the strength in his grip. Although it doesn't hurt, he doesn't let me go either. Of course, I am past pulling away from him. I let him draw me in close, until our noses almost touch.

Then, he bent slightly over and whispered in my ear, "Listen, Doc…Elizabeth, I need to tell you…something. Those steel walls you're saying I have; they're just in **your** mind…"

"But…" I protest.

He holds up his free hand, as the other still has a soft, but firm, grasp on my wrist. "No. No. Let me finish, just this once…And you know how you're hinting at the fact that these so-called walls are the only things that's holding me up, keeping me going. Well, you're wrong about that too…because they aren't."

"Really? Then, what's keeping you going? Because I'd like to have some of whatever it is."

"It's not a what. It's a who…It's you, Elizabeth."

He gets close enough so that our noses touch. And now, would be a **very **good time for me to pull back. I mean, a **really, really, really** good time. But, this time I don't resist…

I meet him halfway.

Our lips meld with one another, hesitant at first. First, I catch his lips with mine. Then, he captures mine with his. But, once I get a full-on taste of his breath, fresh from mint toothpaste and mouthwash, and he of my Big-Red-flavored one, I can't tear myself away. And I guess he can't either.

In fact, sometime in between his last spoken words and now, I find myself straddled over him, my face still connected to his, my body horizontally hovering over his legs by about a foot. I had my arms anchoring me, stationed on either side of the pillow behind him.

I don't even remember sitting back down on the bed.

Still, the kiss deepens, and I can't help but move my hands up to cup his face. I feel his cool hands on my back then, trailing fingertips up and down the length of it. I can feel the tickling sensation straight through my clothes, as if I'm not wearing anything at all.

But, a moment later, as if just coming to his senses, he stops and pulls back, breaking contact with me.

"What is it? What's wrong?" I ask, frowning, pulling back myself.

"N-N-Nothing's wrong." He has a warm smile on his face.

And just like that, the spell is broken. Now, **I** realize what I've just done, what I was about to do. And I know it was all a big mistake.

"Listen, I've…ah…got to go, John," I say, abruptly getting off the bed and standing up.

"No. Please. Stay." He holds out his hand to me, but this time I don't take it.

"Look, I can't, okay. I just can't."

"Elizabeth…" he says, gingerly getting up, following me to the door.

"I said 'no,' god dammit!" I shout, not even looking back at him.

He audibly winces this time.

"Sorry," I murmur much quieter, half-turning back around. Only to receive a double armful of passed-out John Sheppard.

Dammit, John!

XXXXXXX

THE END?

Or is it? I'm actually planning two more follow-ups already, so I'd suggest checking back in a week, maybe sooner… As always, chocolate Sheps go to MandyK and anyone else who reviews my fics and wants one. Choccy Weirs are now also available for the taking. :)

XXXXXXX


End file.
